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GOLDSMITH 


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V NO ME 



AND OTHER VERSE 



SAM C DUNHAM 

COVER DESIGN 
BY THE AUTHOR. 



WASHINGTON. D. C. 

The Neale Publishing Company 

431 ELEVENTH STREET 

MCMI 



THE LIBRARY OF 

CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 

MAR. 29 1901 

Copyright entry 

CLASSd XXc. N». 

COPY B. 



f'S 



<0 ^ 



Copyrighted, 1901. 
By Samuel C. Dunham. 



To the workers on the Yukon, who 
through the long, cold winter of nation- 
al neglect have been patiently working 
while watching and waiting for the ice 
to melt. 



iii 



PREFACE 



These verses were written while the author was 
under assignment to Northern Alaska in 1897-1898 aa 
a Statistical Expert of the Department of Labor, and 
in 1899-1900 as a Special Agent of the Twelfth Cen- 
sus. They are the free expression of some sentiments 
which "Official Courtesy" quite properly excluded 
from his formal reports to the Commissioner of 
Labor and the Director of the Census. Most of them 
have appeared in various newspapers — The New 
York Sim, The San Francisco Examiner, The Wash- 
ington Post, The Illustrated London News, and 
others. They are presented as an appeal from the 
tax-burdened and unrepresented people of Alaska to 
tae Government at Washington for relief from the 
wrongs which they have Dorne too patiently for 
twenty years. 

In 1900 Alaska paid into the Treasury of the 
United States revenues averaging $1,207.43 for every 
day in the year. For what? 

SAM C. DUNHAM. 

Washington, D. C, March l, 1901. 



CONTENTS 



The Men Who Blaze the Trail 9 

Comrades of the Klondike 11 

A Reply 13 

Why the Devil Never Visits the Yukon 15 

Arctic Lightning 19 

Just Back from Dawson 20 

Sence I Come Back from Dawson 25 

I'm Goin' Back to Dawson 30 

To Joaquin Miller 36 

Alaska to Uncle Sam 37 

Thoughts Suggested by My Forty-fifth Birthday 42 

The Lament of the Old Sour Dough 44 

The Goldsmith of Nome 48 

Since the Judge Left Here for Nome 59 

To the Yukon Order of Pioneers 64 

A Greeting to the Swedes 68 

The Poor Swede 71 

Starving Once, Receiving Now 72 

Homeward Bound 74 

To the Yukon Sour Doughs 77 



vll 



THE MEN WHO BLAZE THE TRAIL 



Let others sing of those who've won 

Full hoard of virgin gold! 
I strike the lyre for those who've none. 

But yet are strong and bold, — 
Who've blazed the trails through a pathless waste 
And on the world's new chart have traced 
The lines which lead where the treasure's placed, 

And all their secrets told. 

They search the streams and hillsides rend, 

The hidden truth to learn; 
They trudge where land and sky-line blend. 

And gaze till eyeballs burn; 
They scale bleak heights whence vast plains sweep, 
And sow for those who come to reap. 
While wives and sweethearts in homeland weep 

And pray for their return. 



lO THE MEN WHO BI,AZE THE TRAII, 

Afar in regions of night-gloomed day 

Their slender shadows leap; 
O'er snow-crowned peaks they fight their way 

To where the Gold-gods sleep; 
Where the congelations of the ages lie, 
And athwart the dome of the midnight sky 
Aurora's moon-drenched splendors fly. 

Onward their footsteps creep. 

Out where Deathland, reft of bush or tree. 

Spreads like a sun-browned lawn; 
To the verge of the rigid, ice-locked sea, 

Where twilight greets the dawn; 
Where a sheenless moon sails the sunlit night, 
Where inert and dim bides the Mystic Light, 
And the white swan ends his vernal flight. 
They still are pressing on. 

So while others sing of the chosen few 

Who o'er the Pates prevail, 
I will sing of the many, staunch and true. 

Whose brave hearts never quail, — 
Who with dauntless spirit of pioneers 
A state are building for the coming years. 
Their sole reward their loved ones' tears, — 

The men who blaze the trail! 

Circle City, Jan. 1, 1898. 



COMRADES OF THE KLONDIKE 



I 

Have you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, 
That storm-locked gate to the golden door? 
Those thunder-built steeps have words built to suit, 
And whether you prayed or whether you swore, 
'Twere one, where it seemed that an oath were a 

prayer, — 
Seemed that God couldn't care. 
Seemed that God wasn't there! 

II 

Have you, too, climbed to the Klondike? 

Hast talked as a friend to the five-horned stars? 

With muckluc shoon and with talspike 

Hast bared gray head to the golden bars. 

Those heaven-built bars where Morning is born? 

Hast drunk with Maiden Morn 

From Klondike's golden horn? 



11 



COMRADES OF THE KI^ONDIKE 



III 

Hast read, low-voiced, by the Northliglits 

Such sermons as never men say? 

Hast sat and sat with the Midnights, 

That sit and that sit all day? 

Hast heard the iceberg's boom on boom? 

Hast heard the silence, the room? 

The glory of God, the gloom? 

IV 

Then come to my sunland, my soldier, — 
Aye, come to my heart, and to stay! 
For better crusader or bolder 
Bared never his breast to the fray, 
And whether you prayed or you cursed. 
You dared the best — and the worst — 
That ever brave man durst. 

Joaquin Miller. 

Ctrclb City, Oct. 19, 1897. 



A REPLY 



I, too, have banged at the Chilkoot; 

I have scaled her storm-torn height 

And slid down her trail with dizzy shoot 

That produced a Northern Light; 

And I uttered a curse-laden prayer, — 

Of course God didn't care. 

For only the Devil was there. 

II 

I, too, have climbed to the Klondike, 

Through bog and muck and roots. 

Till my legs were as stiff as thy talspike 

And the water filled both of my boots; 

Have drunk from golden horn 

With maidens, night to morn, — 

I acknowledge the corn. 



18 



14 A REPI^Y 



III 

Have heard, loud-voiced, by the Northlighta 

Such oaths as only men say; 

Have lain awake through the midnights 

And fought mosquitoes all day; 

Cursed Klondike's— not the iceberg's— boom, 

And paid an ounce for a room. 

Which filled my soul with gloom. 

IV 

My friend, I'll come to thy sunland 

As soon as this long winter's o'er, 

And I'll drink to thy health in the one land 

Whither thy thoughts ever soar; 

And though this drought be the worst 

That ever humanity cursed, 

At last we'll banish our thirst. 

Circle City, Oct. 21, 1897. 



WHY THE DEVIL NEVER VISITS THE YUKON 



The Devil one day, so the sagas say, 

Taking his Christmas vacation. 
On outstretched pinions sailed this war, 

In search of souls for damnation. 

With malice prepense, the cold was intense 

(It always is in this section), 
And our unclad friend, in his innocence, 
Came without proper protection. 

(There are others, I'm told, who, equally hold, 
Come here from a warmer climate, 

To find that they're a soft snap for the cold, 
Just like hell's thin-hlooded primate). 

In the pathless wood a lone wigwam stood. 
Not far from the ice-hound river. 

And in hope of finding there warmth and food, 
Nick shook the flap with a shiver. 



15 



l6 WHY THK DEVIIv NEVKR VISITS THE YUKON 

No strangers to sin, they quick took him in, 
And he stood with back to the fire 

While the host prepared a big moose-skin 
And "night-cap" on which to retire. 

He cursed the weather, and asked them whether 
There was any hope for a change; 

He switched his tail like a thong of leather 
And said that its fork felt strange. 

A maiden half-fair, with raven-black hair 
And a beautiful bear-tooth brooch, 

Handed our friend, without offering a chair, 
A cup of the stuff they call "hootch." 

Now I wasn't there, but the sagas declare 

The draught he quaffed was a rank one, — 

A fact to which it is needless to swear 
Before a man who has drank one. 

Our cold friend from hell gave a fiendish yell. 
And soon ail his limbs were jerkin'. 

And flat on the ground convulsive he fell. 
For the hootch had got its work in. 



WHY THK DEVI I, NEVER VISITS THE YUKON 1 7 

He opened his eyes, now looking crosswise. 
And asked who it was that slugged him, 

And opened them wider, in wild surprise. 

When he learned they had only drugged him. 

When ahle to walk and freely to talk. 

He asked them what was in it. 
And the chief concoctor, without a balk. 

Told him in less than a minute: 

"With most cunning skill we concoct the swill 

Of sugar, sour dough and berries. 
And sell it to white men by quart or gill 

In spite of the missionaries. 

"But while it is bad, I am very glad 

To say that high-wines are worse; 
The white chiefs import them, which makes us sad 

And puts a big kink in our purse. 

"That unrectified sin the whites smuggle in 

Will kill if you don't dilute it,— 
A thing which they do, large profits to win; 

No one will dare to dispute it." 



l8 WHY THE DEVII, NKVKR VISITS THK YUKON 

As pale as grim Death and with quickened breath, 
Old Nick gasped, "I'll hie me southward, 

And prone on the sulphurous marge of Lethe, 
I'll dash its sweet waters mouthward. 

"That infernal stuff is quite strong enough 

To run a small hell without me; 
I firmly believe I'll carry its rough 

Effects for a year about me." 

He then climbed the sky, and with curdling cry 
Soared off through the azure, sinwards, 

In the well-stocked sideboards of hell to try 
To find something to soothe his inwards. 

And up to this day, so the sagas say. 
The Devil files shy of this region, 

Contented, aye! glad, to resign his sway 
To Hootch and his High-wine Legion. 

Circle City, Jan. 8, 1898. 



ARCTIC UGHTNKSG 



Far out where the sullen darkness 

Palls the silent, ice-chained sea, 
Spring, low-arched, the fragile Northlights 

O'er the realm of mystery; 
From their haunts beneath the crescent. 

Where the murky shadows lie, 
Come Aurora's pale magicians. 

With their festoons for the sky. 
And while the Color Sergeant musters 

His Immortal Seven 
To hang their banners from the dome 

And drape the walls of heaven. 
Straight he hurls his shafts of silver 

High up in the star-gemmed blue, 
Where the wraiths of light, soft-tinted 

And of swiftly-changing hue. 
Through the long and ghostly vigils 

Of the voiceless Arctic night 
Weirdly gleam and faintly whisper 

As they tremble out of sight. 
Circle City, Feb. 22, 1898. 

19 



JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 



I've just got back from Dawson, where the Arctic 

rainbow ends, 
An' the swiftly-rushin' Klondike with the mighty 

Yukon blends; 
Where the sun on Christmas mornin' in the act of 

risin' sets, 
So that just a minit's sunshine is all that region 

gets; 
An' the rimplin' midnight glories through the moon- 
tranced heavens fly, 
While the guileless sour-dough miners set around 

the stove and lie 
'Bout the good old times at Circle, 'fore the smooth 

promoters came 
An' set the country boomin' in a way that is a 

shame. 



'20 



JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 



I've just got back from Dawson, where the large mos- 
quitoes sing. 

An' soon as they forsake the camp, their small suc- 
cessors sting; 

Where 'long about the last of June the sun again 
surprises 

The new-arrived inhabitants, an' while it's settin' 
rises ; 

Where the price of pay-streak bacon is two dollars 
for a pound. 

An' to treat your friends at Spencer's costs an ounce 
or two a round, 

An' they sell Seattle cider, in the guise of dry cham- 
pagne. 

Which institoots a lingerin' drunk that's very far 
from plain. 

I've just returned from Dawson, where the charge 

for anteek eggs 
Makes considerable difference in length of buyers' 

legs; 
Where our helpful friends in Washington, misled by 

bad advice. 
Concluded they could operate steam enjines on th« 

ice, 
An' are tryin' now the reindeer, a-feedin' them on 

moss, 
But wherever they've been tried eo far there's been 

a heavy loss. 



JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 



While all the old trail-breakers to their pet traditions 

cling 
An' still maintain with vehemence — "the dog's the 

proper thing." 

I've just reached here from Dawson, where I seen 

Frank Slavin spar. 
An' also seen his victim a-revivin' at the bar 
While Frank shook hands with all his friends an' 

loudly did declare 
That he could lick Fitzsimmons, too, if he was only 

there; 
An' seen Oklahoma Wilson attempt to instigate 
A coop de Colt, but ere his gun became articulate 
They yanked him to the barracks in a way he won't 

forget, 
An' to cultivate his harmlessness they're boardin' 

him there yet. 

I've just come out from Dawson, where everybody's 

health 
Is bein' undermined an' ruined in a wild-eyed rush 

for wealth. 
An' a score or so of schemers, on evil projects bent, 
Are robbin* the community to a terrible extent; 
Where the men who dig the treasure are strong an' 

brave an' bold. 



JUST BACK FROM DAWSON 23 

Wrenchin' from the glacier's bowels stockin's full 

of yellow gold, 
While the transportation pirates slyly syndicate their 

gall 
With the criminal intention of absorbin' of it all. 

I've just escaped from Dawson, where the ice grows 

ten feet thick. 
An' doods who like their baths served cold don't take 

'em in a crick; 
Where no one, be he rich or poor, is ever dubbed a 

"hero" 
Till he has done his hundred miles at 60 less than 

zero; 
Where men chop water out in chunks an' pile it on 

the banks, 
An' make their hot-air heaters out of empty coal-oil 

tanks. 
An' read back-number papers by the unobtrusive rays 
Of tallow-dips an' davy lamps — dim lights of other 

days. 

I've just emerged from Dawson, a bad financial 

wreck. 
For instead of gettin' dust galore, I got it in the 

neck, 
Where Adam got the apple in tnat episode with 

Eve» 



24 JUST BACK ^ROM DAWSON 

Which led to woe an' stern decree that they would 

have to leave, 
Like thirty thousand other jays, by golden visions 

lured, 
Who climbed the trails, through hardships to which 

they weren't inured, 
To find that them Dominion knaves, by dastardly 

deceits, 
Had concessioned everything in sight an' even leased 

the streets. 

Washington, D. C, Nov. 25, 1898. 



8ENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSOfJ 



Sence I come back from Dawson to these old famil- 
iar scenes, 

I've read the yaller journals an' the 10-cent maga- 
zines, 

An' to sort o' classify events an' find out what oc- 
curred 

While I was hihernatin' where the light of God was 
blurred, 

I've been searchin' through the columns of the daily 
picture-press, 

To see if I could ascertain, or formulate a guess. 

Why the scribblers who last autumn so artistically 
lied 

*Bout the riches of the Klondike concluded to sub- 
side. 



25 



26 SENCE I COMK BACK FROM DAWSON 

Then every trail was occupied by journalistic beats 
Who represented (with slim cards) all saffron-tinted 

sheets 
From Seattle to Savannah an' from Bangor to Du- 

luth, 
But nary one of them was there to represent the 

truth. 
They stumbled up the Chilkoot an' they loafed along 

the lakes. 
An' when not a-photographin' things or writin' up 

their fakes, 
Imbibed raw rum from Hudson Bay, an' dressed in 

goffin' suits. 
Stood 'round an' told old-timers 'bout the shortest 

Klondike roots. 

Now I've gathered from my readin' that the reason 

why they quit 
Writin' lies about the Klondike was, as lawyers say, 

to-wit: 
Havin' placed us in cold storage an' done all the 

harm they could. 
They felt a awful cravin' for a brand of booze that's 

good. 
An* left at once to sponge it, an' unable to refrain 
From causin' people trouble, they arranged a war 

with Spain, 



S^NCE I COMK BACK FROM DAWSON 27 

An' to properly conduct the same, rushed bravely to 

the front 
An' led all the gallant charges an' bore the battle's 

brunt. 

Now, while us Klondike refugees most greevusly de- 
plore 

The mournful fact so few of them passed to the other 
shore, 

Our grief is curtailed by the thought which punctu- 
ates our sobs. 

That some of them who were not killed have lately 
lost their jobs. 

An' sence my feelin's is aroused, some words I've got 
to say 

About the highly lucrative an' lowly sinful way 

The experts an' perfessers told the things they didn't 
know 

(A-settin' in warm rooms at home) about the realm 
of snow. 

Of all their stories I have read, the worst about that 
far land 

Was written by a man whose brow has long worn 
Fiction's garland, 

Who in the "Klondike Number" of a well-known mag- 
azine 

Told of the sylvan beauties of some trails he'd never 



28 SKNCE I COMi; BACK I^ROM DAWSON 

With purlin' brooks an' wild delights an' picnics 

everywhere 
(Things that exist in poets' dreams, but don't exist 

up there) ; 
Then followed in the steps of them he'd so cruelly 

misled, 
To write about the scenery an' enumerate the dead. 

Perhaps 't will seem that I've assumed a gay an' flip- 
pant air. 

But while I'm settin' here to-night a ghost stands by 
my chair. 

Again I see a famished form stretched 'neath a som- 
bre sky; 

Again I fold the shriveled hands an' close the death- 
glazed eye; 

I see the horrors Falsehood wrought, an' hear again 
the wail 

Of its victim as he perished on a panoramic trail, 

Where his bleached an' badly-scattered bones is all 
that's left to tell 

How he battled with the terrors of a thousand miles 
of hell. 

Now, as I ain't no stateS>j(ii?,nt I can't figger what 

we'll gain 
Through this unexpected legacy of trouble from old 

Spain; 



SENCE I COME BACK FROM DAWSON 29 

But as a unkissed hero from the barren Yukon Plats, 
I modestly petition our distinguished diplomats: 
In your God-directed efforts to emancipate mankind, 
Don't forget your helpless brothers in your Arctic 

wilds confined. 
But in your swoop for liberty, to right an' justice 

true. 
Extend a helpin' hand to them, — annex Alaska, too. 

Washington, D. C, Jan. 1, 1899. 



•M GOIN' BACK TO DAWSON 



Tm goin' back to Dawson, an' suppose I must ex- 
plain 

How I generated nerve enough to hit that trail again. 

I've tramped this land from east to west an' tried Jt 
north an' south. 

An' found the people short on heart but very long on 
mouth; 

I've wandered through the byways an' I've mingled 
with the crowds, 

An' felt a dam sight lonesomer than when above the 
cloud? 

I stood alone 'mid ghostly isles that pierced a spec- 
tral sea 

An' cried in vain to far-off stars that couldn't answer 
me. 



I'm coin' back to dawson 31 

I met a great philantliropist, whose wealth they say 

was ground 
From the labor of a thousand serfs, — whose fame's 

a-spreadin' round 
Because he built a edifice an' filled it full of books 
To learn the poor submission to incorporated crooks, 
An' seen him stop a barefoot kid with papers in the 

street 
An' hand to him a nickel for a flamin' one-cent sheet, 
Then sneak behind him for a block, a-keepin' him in 

range, 
To nab the limpin' little cuss if he tried to swipe tho 

change. 

An' I rambled through the alleys of a big depart- 
ment store, 

Admirin' of the handsome gents which walk along 
the floor 

A-tellin' ladies where to go to get the cheapest 
things, — 

Where "Cash!" appears to be the song that every- 
body sings. 

An' somethin' like five hundred girls that ought to 
be at school 

Lean wearily against the shelves because there's nary 
a stool, — 

An' I'm told the chap who owns the claim has the 
immortal nerve 

To pay but half a case a day to them that stand an' 
serve. 



32 I'm goin' back to dawson 

I'm also told that this here man exists in princely 

style 
In marble halls set on a hill that slopes away a 

mile, 
An' to stupefy his conscience he's donated from his 

wad 
Some money to the heathens an' has built a house 

for God; 
An' drowsin' in his temple on a recent Sabbath 

morn, 
I seen again the faces of them girls so pale an* lorn. 
An' wondered if the cuss was bankin' on the heath- 
ens he had saved 
For a discount up in heaven 'gainst the white folks 

he'd enslaved. 

Then I roused up from my dreamin' that the orgaa 
had produced 

An' thought about the Yukon boys I've so shame- 
fully traduced, 

An' seen again quite clearly, in no music-painted 
dream. 

Two snow-blind men a-stumblin' 'hind a limpin' 
Siwash team, — 

Old Cooley an' his pardner Jo, who never go to 
church, 

A-strugglin' back to Circle from their long trip out 
on Birch 



I'M coin' back to DAWSON 33 

To feed the starvin' Tananas, — ^a service so high- 
priced 

They'll not collect their wages till they hand their 
time to Christ. 

In trampin' through this high-toned land I'm pain- 
fully surprised 

To learn that butchers so refined an' highly civilized 

That they'd disdain to occupy a mansion built of 
logs 

Provide our soldiers beef an' things I wouldn't feed 
my dogs; 

Which makes me want to get back where the canned 
goods ain't so bad 

An' the girls you meet on every hand ain't pale- 
faced, thin, an' sad, — 

Where the milk of human kindness ain't so rigidly 
congealed 

That we'd let 'em wander from the trail because 
they wasn't heeled. 

I want to hear the soothin' tones of Bates's old 
guitar 

As he sings about "The Fisher Maiden" at "The Po- 
lar Star/* 

An' see Brick Wheaton rassle with his yaller mando- 
lin 

As he chants the charms of Injun hootch an' other 
kinds of sin; 



34 I'm goin' back to dawson 

I want to hear them songs once more an' want to 

see my friends 
Where the swiftly-rushin' Klondike v/ith the mighty 

Yukon blends, 
An' they size a feller-sinner by his lieart an' what 

he knows 
An' never ask his Southern name or criticise his 

clo's. 

I want to see Aurora — not the one that greets the 
day. 

But her weak an' pallid namesake — try to drive the 
night away. 

An' watch her throw her shafts of silver far up in 
the sky. 

While her color-bearers tint 'em with an ever- 
changin' dye. 

An' from the walls of heaven all their fragile ban- 
ners swing 

Till the air's alive with whispers like the swishin' of 
a wing. 

An' from the zenith flash great lights across the in- 
terspace 

Till you feel you're in God's presence an* can almost 
see His face. 

So I'm goin' back to Dawson, an' I'll float along that 

way 
As the ice moves down the river, 'long about the last 

of May, 



I'm coin' back to dawson 35 



When birds an' flowers are flirtin' an' the white 
clouds sail the hlue — 

An' the energetic insecks get in their fine work too. 

I know now what I didn't when I went up there be- 
fore, 

That it is soshul suicide to linger round here poor, 

For though the Arctic winters there are long an* 
dark an' cold, 

They're warmer than my welcome when they found I 
brought no gold. 

Washington, D. C, Feb. 22,1899. 



TO JOAQUII^ MILLER 



Here at the Gate of the Arctic, 

Facing the silent land. 
Backward I reach through the distance 

And grasp your heart-hot hand. 
If our earthly trails ne'er cross again, 

I'll meet you farther west. 
On the sunset side of the Sundown Sea, 

Where trail-worn poets rest. 

Chilkoot Pass, June 19, 1899. 



ALASKA TO UNCLE SAM 



Sitting on my greatest glacier. 

With my feet in Bering Sea, 
I am thinking, cold and lonely, 

Of the way you've treated me. 
Three-and-thirty years of silence! 

Through ten thousand sleepless nights 
I've heen praying for your coming — 

For the dawn of civil rights. 

When you took me, young and trusting, 

Prom the growling Russian hear, 
Loud you swore before the nations 

I should have the Eagle's care. 
Never yet has wing of eagle 

Cast a shadow on my peaks. 
But I've watched the flight of buzzards 

And I've felt their busy beaks. 



37 



38 AI^ASKA TO UNCr,E SAM 



Your imported cross-roads statesmen 

(What a motley, sordid train!) 
Come with laws conceived in closets, — 

Made for loot and private gain! 
These the best that you can furnish? 

Then God help the heathen folk 
You have rescued from the burden 

Of the rotting Spanish yoke! 

I'm a full-grown, proud-souled woman. 

And I'm getting tired and sick- 
Wearing all the cast-off garments 

Of your body politic. 
If you'll give me your permission, 

I will make some wholesome laws 
That will suit my hard conditions 

And promote your country's cause. 

By the latest mail you sent me 

(Nearly all j^our mails are late!). 
Comes the news that you've gone roving 

In your proud old Ship of State,— 
Dreaming with a sunburnt siren 

By the sultry southern seas, 
Where the songs of your enchantress 

Swoon upon the scented breeze. 



AI^ASKA TO UNCI,K SAM 39 

You are blind with lust of conquest 

And desire for foreign trade, 
Or you'd see the half-drawn dagger, 

With its brightly-burnished blade, 
Sticking in the loosened girdle 

Of the black brute by your side — 
If you treat her as I'm treated 

She will stick it through your hide. 

Curb your taste for sun-killed countries, 

Where the natives loaf and shirk; 
Come to richer northern regions. 

Where the people think and work. 
If you want a part of Asia 

When the Chinamen are killed, 
Run a railroad up to Bering — 

I will show you where to build. 

Come next spring and count my treasures, 

And don't stop at Glacier Bay, 
Like the many high commissions 

You have started up this way. 
You will see my wooded mountains. 

With their citadels of snow 
Gleaming in the purple distance 

Through the pearl-hued alpen-glow. 



40 AI,ASKA TO UNCI,B SAM 



Standing on my flower-strewn hillsides. 

Where my mighty rivers meet. 
Gazing o'er my verdant valleys, 

Spreading seaward from your feet, 
You will see the sunlit splendors 

Of my moonless midnight skies. 
Gilded with the light supernal 

Shining straight from Paradise. 

If you stay till Hoary Winter 

Has entombed the silent land. 
You will read celestial sermons, 

Written by the Master's hand 
On the azure walls of heaven, 

Where Aurora's tinted light 
Weirdly flits like summer lightning 

All the ghostly Arctic night. 

When you come I'll show you wonders 

That will cause you great surprise. 
And if gold is what you're seeking 

You will open wide your eyes. 
Drive away your Wall street schemers. 

With their coupons and their nerve. 
Then while you extend your commerce 

I'll expand your gold reserve. 



ALASKA TO UNCIvE SAM 41 

You will find a magic city 

On the shore of Bering Strait 
Which shall be for you a station 

To unload your Arctic freight, 
Where the gold of Humboldt's vision 

Has for countless ages lain, 
Waiting for the hand of labor 

And the Saxon's tireless brain. 

You shall have a cool vacation. 

Hunting for the great white bear. 
And you'll soon forget Manila 

And the trouble you've had there; 
For as in the morn of nations 

Every highway led to Rome, 
You and all your restless rivals 

Will be sailing straight to Nome. 

You will wake a sleeping empire. 

Stretching southward from the Pole 
To the headlands where the waters 

Of your western ocean roll. 
Then will rise a mighty people 

From the travail of the years. 
Whom with pride you'll call your children, — 

Offspring of my pioneers. 

Fort Yukon, Sept. 6, 1899. 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MY FORTY-FIFTH 
BIRTHDAY 



When a man gets along to about forty-two. 
He's apt to sit down and let pass in review 
The scenes of his past, and he's likely to make 
An effort to spot the fatal mistake 
Which changed the whole course of human events 
With regard to his hopes and honest intents. 

One makes his mistake in the morning of life, 
In failing to choose or in choosing a wife; 
Another takes a drink and the evil is done. 
And Dishonor completes what the Devil begun, 
While many evade Life's pitfalls and snares 
Till Old Time has garnered or silvered their hairs. 

But mine was the earliest failure on earth. 
For I made my mistake at the hour of birth 
By making my debut, an undressed kid. 
The same day of the month that Washington did. 
And I look back now and see quite plain 
Why all of my efforts have been in vain. 



42 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY MY FORTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 43 

You've heard about George and his cute little ax 

And his weakness for sticking too close to the facts. 

My very first effort to emulate him 

Gave a shock to my system that made my head swim, 

For when I confessed to my volatile dad 

I got the worst licking I ever have had. 

In spite of that set-back I've kept up the fight 
'Gainst Error and Falsehood, for Truth and the 

Right; 
But always through life I've felt the restraint 
Of the gift handed down by my Natal-day Saint, 
And I'm forced to admit that Virtue's reward 
Is the only return I can thus far record. 

No matter what pathway I've chosen in life. 

In city or country or political strife, 

On the crest of a mountain or the marge of a lake, 

There stood close beside me my fatal mistake. 

And wherever my lofty ambition has led 

I've seen my hopes wither, my projects drop dead. 

But here in the Arctic, where Falsehood is tough. 
The pathway of Truth is peculiarly rough. 
And as I gaze out o'er the white frozen sea 
I feel all too keenly it's no place for me. 
For no one who sticks to George W.'s creed 
Can ever expect in this land to succeed. 
St. Michael, Feb. 22, 1900. 



THE LAMENT OF THE OLD SOUR DOUGH 



I've trudged and I've starved and I've frozen 

All over this white barren land, — 
Where the sea stretches straight, white and silent. 

Where the timberless white mountains stand,.— 
Prom the white peaks that gleam in the moonlight. 

Like a garment that graces a soul. 
To the last white sweep of the prairies. 

Where the black shadows brood round the Pole. 

(Now, pray don't presume from this prelude 

That a flame of poetical fire 
Is to burst from my brain like a beacon. 

For I've only been tuning my lyre 
To the low, sad voice of a singer 

Who's inspired to sing you some facts 
About the improvements in staking 

And the men who mine with an ax.) 



44 



IHE I<AMENT OF THE OI,D SOUR DOUGH 45 

I've panned from Peru to Point Barrow, 

But I never located a claim 
Till I'd fully persuaded my conscience 

That pay dirt pervaded the same ; 
And this is the source of my sorrow. 

As you will be forced to agree 
When you learn how relentless Misfortune 

Has dumped all her tailings on me. 

I worked with my pardner all summer. 

Cross-cutting a cussed cold creek. 
Which we never once thought of locating 

Unless we located the streak; 
And when at the close of the season 

We discovered the creek was a fake 
We also discovered the region 

Had nothing left in it to stake. 

We traversed the toe-twisting tundra. 

Where reindeer root round for their feed, 
And the hungry Laplanders who herd them 

Devour them before they can breed. 
Here it seemed that good claims might be plenty, 

And we thought we would stake one — perhaps; 
But we found to our grief that the gulches 

Were staked in the name of the Lapps. 



46 THE I/AMKNT OF THE OI,D SOUR DOUGH 



A hundred long leagues to the northward. 

O'er the untrodden, sun-hurnlshed snow, 
We struggled, half blind and half famished. 

To the sea where the staunch whalers go. 
We found there broad beaches of ruby 

And mountains with placers and leads, 
But all save the sky was pre-empted 

By salt-water sailors and Swedes. 

Then we climbed the cold creeks near a mission 

That is run by the agents of God, 
Who trade Bibles and prayer-books to heathen 

For ivory, sealskins and cod. 
At last we were sure we had struck it. 

But alas! for our hope of reward, — 
The landscape from sea-beach to sky-line 

Was staked in the name of the Lord! 

We're too slow for the new breed of miners, 

Embracing all classes of men, 
Who locate by power of attorney 

And prospect their claims with a pen, — 
Who do all of their fine work through agents 

And loaf around town with the sports, 
On intimate terms with the lawyers. 

On similar terms with the courts. 



THK I,AMKNT OF THE OIvD SOUR DOUGH 47 



We're scared to submission and silence 

By the men the Government sends 
To force us to keep law and order. 

While they keep claims for their friends. 
And collect in an indirect manner 

An exceedingly burdensome tax. 
Assumed for a time by the traders 

And then transferred to our backs. . 

We had some hard knocks on the Klondike 

From the Cub-lion's unpadded paws, 
And suffered some shocks from high license 

And other immutable laws; 
But they robbed us by regular schedule, 

So we knew just what to expect. 
While at Nome we're scheduled to struggle 

Until we're financially wrecked. 

I'm sick of the scream of the Eagle 

And laws of dishonest design. 
And I'm going in quest of a country 

Where a miner can locate a mine; 
So when I have rustled an outfit 

These places will know me no more, 
For I'll try my luck with the Russians 

On the bleak Siberian shore. 

Nome, April 15, 1900. 



THE GOLDSMITH OP NOME 



I 

I am resting by my anvil, 

And my forge is growing cold;' 
I have ceased my age-long labors, 

I have beaten out my gold ; 
I hate scattered wide my treasures 

On the superficial sands. 
Where they lie unlocked and waiting 

For the work of human hands. 

Where my far-spread barren beaches 

Lay untrod through countless years, 
I can see the meager camp-fires 

Of the hardy pioneers 
Who have learned anew my secret 

From the unsecretive sands. 
And have sent my golden message 

To the workers in all lands. 



48 



THE GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 49 

Gazing southward through the valleys 

Where the ice-chained rivers sleep 
'Neath their wide-flung ghostly mantles 

And the Arctic nightwinds sweep, 
I see men of dauntless spirit, — 

Men whose brave hearts never quail, — 
Struggling northward o'er wild barrens. 

Breaking for the world a trail. 

Looking out across the waters 

Stretching sunward to the Sound, 
I can see the sons of labor 

Boarding vessels hitherbound; 
I can hear the great crowds cheering 

On the fast-receding piers, 
Where sad mothers clasp their children 

And gaze seaward through their tears. 

I can see my people coming. 

Sailing over many seas; 
I can see the white sails swelling 

As they catch the southern breeze; 
I can see the black smoke trailing 

From the sloping steamer-stacks. 
Throwing swiftly-circling shadows 

Over foamy, swirling tracks. 



50 the; GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 

From the swarming, stifling cities, 

Where wan children gasp for breath; 
From the shadeless, unploughed prairies, 

Where grim cyclones scatter death; 
From the old world's worked-out placer 

And the rock-choked mountain gorge. 
They are coming by the thousands 

For the product of my forge. 

II 

Here I wrought throughout the ages, 

By the silent, tideless sea. 
Beating out my golden ingots 

For the empire yet to be,— 
Watched the mighty strife of Nature, 

Heard the glacial millstones grind, 
Marked the rise and fall of nations. 

Timed the progress of mankind. 

While the seven-hued Arctic lightning 

Faintly flashes through the night, 
Tinting all the ghostly landscape 

With its soft, elusive light, 
I am dreaming of the glory 

Of the prehistoric race 
Which inhabited these valleys 

When the first stampede took place. 



THE GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 5 1 



When I entered on my labors 

Stately palmtrees weirdly threw 
Slender shadows in the moonlight. 

Where the sea slept warm and blue; 
In the dark primeval forest. 

Dank beneath a tropic sun. 
Roamed wild beasts of form colossal, 

Greater than the mastodon. 

Birds of brilliant sun-lit plumage 

Caroled in the fronded trees. 
And their songs were wafted seaward 

On the balmy summer breeze; 
Fragrant flowers exhaled their odors, 

And the distant hazy hills 
Lulled the fruitful vales and uplands 

With the music of their rills. 

From the plain swept wooded mountains 

So immeasurably high 
That their gleaming, snowy summits 

Pierced the opalescent sky. 
While the sun sent shafts of amber 

To adorn their clinging clouds. 
And the moon as came the night-tide 

Veiled their forms in silver shrouds. 



52 THK GOIvDSMlTH OF NOME 

Women framed in perfect beauty. 

Greatest gift that God had given, 
Reared to manhood happy children. 

Taught them truth derived from heaven; 
Men of elemental wisdom, 

Giants of that elder time, 
Made the land an earthly Eden, 

Free from poverty and crime. 

Ill 

From beyond the distant mountains. 

Where the day pursues the dawn, 
Came strange men of pallid visage. 

Active brain and feeble brawn. 
Who brought all their wiles and vices. 

Leaving truth and virtue home. 
And at once took up the Durden 

Of good government for Nome. 

They brought all the arts and customs 

Of the countries whence they came. 
All their culture and refinement. 

All their wickedness and shame. 
And they taught my simple people 

All their subtlety of mind 
And the luxury of living 

On the labor of their kind. 



THE GOIyDSMlTH OF NOME 53 



They unearthed my hidden treasures, 

Filled their coffers full of gold, 
Traflficked in the market places 

Where their fellowmen were sold, 
Made of woman's soul and virtue 

The cheap plaything of an hour. 
Gave the rights of man to Mammon, 

Bought their way to place and power. 

When God saw the selfish uses 

To which men had put His gold, 
Black His hrow became with anger 

And His heart grew stern and cold, 
And He hurled His holts of thunder 

From the hattle'ments of heaven 
Till the sun went out in darkness 

And remotest space was riven. 

Then came on that awful travail 

Which made Mother Nature groan. 
Shook the stars from out the heavens, 

Threw the Devil from his throne, 
Swung the planets from their orbits 

Till they aimless swept and whirled. 
Turned the Tropics to the Arctics, 

And repolarized the world. 



54 the; GOr^DSMlTH OF NOME 

Through the frigid, age-long winter 

Here in loneliness I dwelt 
In my breezy glacial cavern, 

Waiting for the ice to melt. 
Till at last I caught a vision. 

Through the sun-transfigured rime. 
Of my vales once more aslumher 

'Neath the haze of summertime. 

IV 
Then I watched that wondrous waking. 

Nineteen hundred years ago. 
When the great searchlights of Heaven 

Set the universe aglow. 
Throwing rays of hope and comfort 

Through the darkness of despair 
Hanging o'er the heavy laden 

And the weary everywhere. 

All nighl long the earth lay sleeping 

'Neath a pale, mysterious light 
Beaming from the throne of Heaven, 

Where God's lamps were burning bright; 
Choirs seraphic made sweet music. 

Faintly heard through gates ajar; — 
In the Bast above the morning 

Shone a new irradiant Star. 



THK GOI^DSMITH Olf NOME 55 

Jesus came and taught His lessons, 

Walked the earth a little space, 
Lighted all the ways of sorrow 

With the glory of His face, 
Planted hope in hopeless bosoms 

As he went from door to door, 
Wept and fainted by the wayside 

'Neath the burdens of the poor. 

He rebuked the righteous rascals 

Who stood in the street to pray. 
Scourged the brokers from God's temple. 

Drove the hypocrites away. 
Lifted up forsaken women. 

Cheered the lonely and distressed, 
Folded hungry little children 

Gently to His loving breast. 

Then the money-changers dragged Him 

Like a drunkard through the street. 
Thrust sharp thorns in His pale forehead. 

Pierced with nails His bleeding feet, 
Stretched Him on the tree of torture. 

And His quivering muscles tore. 
As upon the cross of labor 

They now crucify the poor. 



56 THK GOI.DSMITH OF NOME 

As His Spirit sped to Heaven, 

Clothed in raiment white as snow, 
From afar I heard His promise 

To all workers here below: 
"Watch and labor in my vineyard, 

Bear the burden and the pain; 
I am going to my Father, 

But I'll come to you again." 

V 

Then a great awaking pity 

Seized upon my swelling breast, 
And my heart was filled with yearning 

For the wretched and oppressed; 
As a father loves to labor 

For the children of his bone, 
I have wrought here for my people, 

In the silence and alone. 

I have watched them sadly toiling 

Through the centuries as slaves. 
Never laying down their burdens 

Till they dropped them at their graves. 
And while watching I've been working 

For the workers in all lands. 
For the millions born to labor. 

Their sole heritage their hands. 



THE GOI<DSMlTH OF NOMB 57 



Not as wrought the other Goldsmiths, 

Jealous of their hoarded wealth, 
Who in darkness through the ages 

Wrought in secret, and by stealth 
Hid it in the heart of mountains 

From the primal stratum hurled, 
Or beneath the slag and cinders 

In the basement of the world. 

They wrought for the thrifty masters, 

For the men of fertile brain. 
Who grow rich through toil of others, 

Thriving on their brothers' pain, — 
Who by traffic with earth's rulers 

Gain control of Nature's sod. 
Arrogating as their birthright 

A co-partnership with God. 



Come and take my golden treasures 

From the shining, yielding sands; 
They shall be the untithed wages 

Of your free, unfettered hands. 
If the men who prey on labor 

Try to grasp the gold you glean, 
I will call the guardian nation. 

And she'll scourge them from the scene. 



58 THE GOI^DSMITH OF NOME 

For the self-selected savior 

Of the islands of the sea 
Will not idly stand and witness 

Such a blow to liberty; 
She that 'round the lazy heathen 

Her protecting arms has thrown 
Will not let her working children 

Be defrauded of their own. 

Nome, April 1, 1900. 



SINCE THE JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR NOME 



Like one just waking from a dream, I walked abroad 

to-day 
And rambled to the green-roofed town that sleeps 

across the bay; ' 
I wandered to the empty house, where I was wont to 

go 
And always found a welcome and a solace for my 

woe, — 
Where erstwhile on cold winter nights (so long and 

yet so short!) 
We boys from all the island round did frequently 

resort 
To celebrate the passing hours by playing cards and 

pool, 
While our kind host walked back and forth and with 

his famous tool 
Extracted corks and filled us up on beer and wine 

and stuff 
Till each had sworn repeatedly that he was full 

enough. 



6o SINCE THK JUDGE LEFT HERE FOR NOME 

I stood despondent at the door and faced the frozen 
foam 

That from my frail and faltering feet reached west- 
ward to Cape Nome, 

And as I gazed with brimming eyes across the shin- 
ing sea, 

Some sober thoughts and sentiments were blown 
ashore to me. 

I pictured in my burning brain the Judge upon the 
trail, 

Entombed within a native shack or struck by Arctic 



And then that old, old question came and bothered 

me again: 
"Are those who go or those who stay the sport of 

greatest pain?" 
And as I rubbed my throbbing brow, my aching heart 

repined : 
"The ones who suffer most of all are those who stay 

behind!" 

I'm sure as westward speeds the Judge he little ap- 
prehends 

The frightful havoc he has wrought among his for- 
mer friends; 

If he could hear them sigh and groan and see them 
try to walk. 



SINCE THE JUDGK I^EFT HERE FOR NOME 6i 

I'm sure he never would again produce his private 

stock 
Of Runnymede and Pommery's and Mumm's seduc- 
tive sees 
And pour the same persistently down their receptive 

necks. 
(The thing that seems most strange to me and fills 

me with surprise 
Is how the Judge's private stock affects a fellow's 

eyes, — 
Last night before he went away the town was painted 

red, 
But now it wears a ghastly green like grave-grass o'er 

the dead.) 



I wandered through the hatless hall and passed from 
room to room. 

Last night alive with mirth and light, to-day adead 
with gloom. 

I went into the parlor, where we used to sit around 

And suffer till the Judge his punch did perfectly com- 
pound. 

The bookcase stood with vacant shelves and doors ex- 
tended wide. 

As if it yearned for vanished friends that once re- 
posed inside; 



62 SINCE the: judge I,E;FT here for NOME 

Some flowering plants, left there abloom with blos- 
soms chaste and rare, 

Already drooped their slender stems for want of wo- 
man's care, — 

The sight of these familiar things intensified my 
grief 

So that I sadly turned away and sought outside re- 
lief. 

I blundered with uncertain steps into a closet dark, 

Where stood the shapes of spirits flown, all glassy- 
eyed and stark, — 

A hundred bottles, all uncorked (last night with full- 
ness rife), 

Proclaiming by their emptiness the emptiness of life. 

What happened then? Was it a dream? What was i 
looking at? 

What was it that on yonder shelf so calm and proud- 
ly sat? 

(It was a large cold cruse of Mumm the Judge forgot 
to crack, — 

I cracked it with celerity, my lips began to smack. 

And to my careless absent friend I drank this truth- 
ful toast: 

"Of all the drinks I've drunk with you I needed this 
one most!") 



SINCE the; judge I^EFT here for NOME 63 



The room that had appeared so dark was brilliantly 

ablaze, — 
The scene now shone transplendent with the light of 

other days; 
The place was full of brawny men and charming wo- 
men too, — 
The former raiher numerous, the latter somewhat 

few; 
I heard again the happy jest, the reading of old 

rhymes, 
The tales of hardships long endured, the stories of 

old times; 
I heard once more the sweet old songs, sung with a 

graceful art 
That made us think of childhood's days and softened 

every heart; 
And then I sank into a chair and wished I was in 

Nome, 
And while I wished I fell asleep and dreamed a dream 

of home. 

St. MiCHAKii, April 25, 1900. 



TO THE YUKON ORDER OF PIONEERS 



In Memory of Charles S. Lavante. Died at Nome, 
Sept. 8, 1900 



Will you let an Arctic Brother lay a garland on the 

bier 
Where sleeps the stark and pallid form of a Yukon 

Pioneer? 
Will you let me pay a tribute to the one you mourn 

to-day. 
Whose soul is speeding homeward from its worked- 

out dump of clay? 

I spent a winter with your friend among the Yukon 
hills. 

And shared with him his~ simple joys and compli 
cated ills; 

I saw him tested by the rule which few at Nome ob- 
serve, 

That we should do to other men what we ourselves 
deserve. 



64 



TO THIS YUKON ORDKR OF PIONEERS 65 

He broke the rules of order and the excise ordi- 
nance 

By selling untaxed liquor at the old-time Siwash 
dance; 

But he never broke the maxim of the mushers on the 
trail. 

That it's wrong to pass a comrade when you see he's 
apt to fail. 

I see his face a-beaming as he stood behind the bar 
And listened to the soothing tones of Bates's old 

guitar, 
In the good old days at Circle, ere the courts and 

lawyers came 
To rob our richest sluices in a way that is a shame. 

I hear again his gentle voice and see his sad, sweet 

smile, 
As he told the tales of. hardship on the creeks at 

Forty Mile,— 
How you wintered on bad bacon and on prehistoric 

beans, 
And when you had the scurvy steeped the spruce 

boughs for your greens. 



66 TO run YUKON ORDER OF PIONEKRS 

He told me all about the trails that climbed up in the 

air. 
Meandered o'er the mountain peaks, and ended — God 

knows where; 
He told me of the hopeful times you spent at Cas- 

siar, 
And how you used to rock out gold on old Bonanza 

Bar. 

He told me how the traders used to do you boys up 

brown 
By putting up the prices when they said they'd put 

them down, 
And all about that awful year you fellows almost 

died 
Because you missed "The Racket" and were forced to 

stay inside. 

His latchstring always hung outside, and you never 

had to knock, 
For he had no knocker at his door, and he hadn't 

any lock; 
When you asked him for a porterhouse he dished up 

caribou, 
And when you craved a whisky straight he set up 

"hootchinoo." 



TO THE YUKON ORDBR OF PIONEBRS 67 



He never liked the Klondike, and he had no faith in 

Nome, 
And since he came, in '86, he got no news from 

home; 
But he never lost his courage, and he always used to 

say 
That the good old times at Forty Mile would come 

again to stay. 

The good old times have come to him, but not at 
Forty Mile, 

And ne'er again at Circle will you see his happy 
smile; 

For he's gone to take his well-earned rest in the uni- 
versal way, 

And I know he'll find God's latchstring a-hanging out 
to-day. 

NoMic, Sept. 9, 1900. 



A GREETIMG TO THE SWEDES 



From their Fellow-sufferers at Topkuk 



We learn to-day that you've received a message from 

the Sound 
Which loosed the legal ligatures with which your 

claims were bound. 
We send our warmest greetings, and hope that you 

will get 
The dust the Boss Receiver is a-hanging onto yet. 

We had our little laughs last year, and chuckled at 
your woes 

Caused by the festive jumpers and the mournful old 
Sour Doughs; 

But we've ceased to smile and laid our laughs upon 
the upper shelves, 

For we have learned to our regret just how it is our- 
selves. 



A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 69 



We have a sub-receiver here, who's working out our 
mine 

In a systematic manner which makes our hearts re- 
pine. 

He brought a damned expensive plant, shipped in his 
boss's name, 

And planted it against our "kick" upon our richest 
claim. 

He brought a gang of bosom friends, helped up here 

from below. 
And wouldn't give a single job to any one we know. 
And when he took the riffles out and weighed his 

shining swag. 
He wouldn't let us see the scales or even heft the bag. 

We called upon the lowest court and all the powers 

that be, — 
We raised our mournful cries to heaven and sent 

them out to sea; 
We cried in vain for earthly help and almost ceased 

to fight. 
When Nature took a hand and gave a knock-out blow 

for right. 



70 A GREETING TO THE SWEDES 

Last week the foam-crowned Sea King came and 
serred his unbought writ, 

And Aleck's high-priced plant now lies deep down be- 
neath the spit. 

God jumped our claim and drove away the horde of 
unpaid hands. 

Who wander up and down and weep along our 
worked-out sands. 

We join with you in praise to-day and raise a joyful 

shout 
In honor of the righteous laws that knocked the 

jumpers out. 
Let's celebrate in dry champagne the powers that 

wield the rod, — 
You thank the U. S. Circuit Court while we giv? 

thanks to God! 

ToPKUK, Sept. 16, 1900. 



THE POOR SWEDE 



A square-headed, hard-working Swede, 
Propelled by inordinate greed. 
Mushed around in the cold 
Till he found some coarse gold, 
And then came to town at full speed. 

A lawyer with galvanized jaw. 
Whose mode of procedure was raw, 
Sent a thief out to jump 
The rich claim of the chump 
And stake it "according to law." 

The Swede is now stretched on the rack 
And trying to get his claim back. 

While the Court takes its time 

To consider the crime 
Till the receiver fills up his long sack. 

Nome, Sept. 17, 1900. 



71 



STARVING ONCE. RECEIVING NOW 



I 
A lawyer was disbarred back home 
And found it convenient to roam; 

He floated this way 

In a cargo of hay 
And inflicted his presence on Nome. 

He waited for clients to rob 

Till his stomach demanded a job; 

Then he haunted the street 

For something to eat 
Till he looked like a Klondike slob. 



72 



STARVING ONCE, RECEIVING NOW 73 

II 

A miner climbed over the Mils 
And prospected the gulches and rills 

Till he discovered enough 

Of the right kind of stufC 
To drive away poverty's ills. 

He staked a rich claim in his name 

And proceeded to ground-sluice the same; 

Then he came in and bragged 

Of the gold he had bagged, — 
That's why he's not working his claim. 

Ill 

The case was decided next day 
In the usual ex parte way. 

And the miner then found 

He was robbed of his ground 
And couldn't get even a lay. 

The lawyer now has ample means 
And frequents the most brilliant scenes; 

He eats three times a day 

At the Paree Caffay, 
While the miner eats bacon and beans. 

Nome, Sept. 18, 1900. 



HOMEWARD BOUND 



I am out upon the ocean, 

Sailing southward to the Sound 
With six hundred busted brothers, 

Kicking hard, but homeward bound. 
There are sixty in the staterooms 

And some eighty souls or so 
Sleeping on the floors and tables, 

While the rest seek sleep below. 

Of the sixty in the cabin 

Only thirty had the stufC, 
While the others came on passes 

Or some other sort of bluff. 
How the hundreds in the steerage 

Got the gold to get them home 
Always will remain the greatest 

Of the mysteries of Nome. 



74 



HOMBWARD BOUND 75 



There's a siren from Seattle 

Who is traveling in style, 
Basking in the brilliant sunshine 

Of the purser's dazzling smile. 
She has jumped a first-class stateroom 

That is simply out of sight, 
And has oranges and apples 

With her champagne every night. 

There's a widow with two children 

Who is trying to get home, 
Having given up the struggle 

When her husband died at Nome. 
Both her kids exhibit cravings 

For all kinds of fruits and nuts. 
But they can't get 'nough of either 

To distend their little guts. 

There's a smooth absconding lawyer, 

Wearing diamonds like a sport, 
Who spends all his lucid moments 

Praising Nome's imported Court. 
He has beefsteaks in his stateroom, 

Purloined by the pantryman. 
While his clients in the steerage 

Bat cold corn-beef from a can. 



76 HOMEWARD BOUND 

There's a Topkuk sub-receiver 

Who is smuggling like a thief 
All the gold the gang could gobble 

For their late-transported Chief. 
He indulges in fresh oysters, 

Fine cigars and foreign wines. 
While the man who first staked Topkuk 

Tells us how they robbed his mines. 

There are counts galore from Paris 

And a few of them from Spain, 
Who invaded Nome to traffic; 

But they'll not do so again, 
For they found their debts so heavy 

That they had to leave them there. 
While their unpaid Dago valets 

Had to come out on the Bear. 

Late last night they gave a banquet, 

And imposed some heavy fines 
To defray the steward's charges 

For his bummest brands of wines. 
All the guests stood the assessment 

Without making any kick. 
But as soon as they get sober 

They'll appreciate the trick. 



HOMEWARD BOUND 



77 



I shall not recount the horrors 

And the terrors of the trip. 
For the same may be imagined 

By all those who know the ship; 
But I'll simply say in closing 

That the most distressing fact 
That has come to my attention 

Is the way the ladies act. 

Lat. 55, 54 N., Long. 139, 18 W., Nov. 1, 1900. 

l.ofC. 



8o TO THS YUKON SOUR DOUGHS 

Then I sent them to the censors of the 10-cent mag- 
azines; 

But they wanted stuff from China or the un whipped 
Philippines, 

Or a lot of pictures showing how the British butcher 
Boers, — 

Not a word about the pirates who infest your barren 
shores. < 

So I've had my verses printed, and I send them up 

to you, 
Who for years have borne the burden, but are yet as 

staunch and true 
As when first you blazed the pathway to the white 

and silent land; 
And I know that when you read them you will feel 

and understand. 

Washington, D. C, Feb. 1, 1901. 



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3INDERY INC. 

^ DEC 88 



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